


how grant ward saves hanukkah

by owlvsdove



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Holidays, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/pseuds/owlvsdove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> “He's trying to prove he's not a Nazi,” Jemma stage-whispers. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> Ward rolls his eyes heavenward.  </i>
</p>
<p>Grant Ward returns to make amends. </p>
<p>[a gift for aos exchange on tumblr]</p>
            </blockquote>





	how grant ward saves hanukkah

**Author's Note:**

> I AM JEWISH. YOU CAN UNCLENCH. 
> 
> my prompt for [aos exchange](aosexchange.tumblr.com) was:
> 
> _Something about dealing with the Ward fallout? Especially after the bit with Fitz, I feel like there is a lot of hurt and fear and maybe even shame there that they still haven't dealt with._
> 
> _Failing that, Christmas. That would be amazing._
> 
> anyway, i have no idea if i actually accomplished this, but here you go. 
> 
> also please note that this is not really canon-compliant with the last few episodes and takes place in the distant future.

 

Ward returns with a Christmas tree.

It’s quite a large tree, as far as they can see from the security feed. It dwarfs him by about a foot. He’s grown his beard out again, like when he lived downstairs (read: was imprisoned by a shadow organization without any legitimized authority), so he—

“Kind of looks like a lumberjack,” Fitz murmurs on Skye’s left. She nods a little.

“Do you see that?” Jemma says, leaning in a bit. There’s a movement at the bottom of the screen. Skye arrows the camera down with an audible buzz that Ward flicks a look at.

“It’s a dog,” Skye says. Huh. “He brought us a dog?”

“Maybe he thinks that’s how he can win us over,” Fitz says. “With an adorable animal.”

“It’s worked in the past,” Jemma says, as though that is a reasonable tactic for Ward to come up with.

None of the three of them really know how to handle this.

So they stand shoulder to shoulder and watch as Coulson presses a button and opens the door, greeting him with a neutral nod.

Well, neutral- _looking_.

 

 

 

 

Here’s what happened, generally:

Ward escaped. Ward _escaped_. Because he’s Ward, and despite the horrifying rage any one of them felt towards him at any given time, he is still just as capable as the Ward they always knew. He’s just as capable as they admired.

That stings a little.

Coulson said don’t give him an inch, but frankly, that’s where Ward works best. He’s never had an inch of anything. He’s always been on a tight leash with not a bit of slack. He works better in close quarters. He works better when the entire world seems to depend on it.

So he escaped.

And they chased him, for a while. They chased him as much as you can chase someone when you’re being hunted yourself.

Which is not very much.

In fact, Ward gets them out of a scrape with the government in Kirkuk rather by accident, and after that, Coulson puts him on the back burner.

But a lot of things come to light over time.

A lot of things.

 

 

 

 

The dog, a big oaf of a mutt, trundles forward without any prompting, although it is, as a dog, forgiven.

Ward, on the other hand, waits to be spoken to.

“Ward,” Coulson says.

He clears his throat. “Director.”

“Is that a Christmas tree?”

“You’re supposed to bring something when you come over to someone’s home. I didn’t know if you had one already.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

“Roger likes sitcoms.”

“Roger?” Coulson asks.

The dog barks.

Coulson turns a bit. “Roger.”

The dog barks again.

“He’s cute.”

“Oh, Roger’s a girl,” Ward says.

“Okay,” Coulson says. “Why a tree?”

“It’s almost Christmas,” he says, doing the tonal version of a shrug. “I also have a menorah in my backpack.”

“Because?”

“Because I don’t know your team. I don’t want to be disrespectful.”

Coulson nods. “That’s very…thoughtful.”

Ward says nothing.

“Why don’t you come in? Mack,” Coulson calls. Mack appears. He is as close to a neutral party as Ward can get, so he’s been watching from the side. “Can you, uh, take the tree?”

Mack hefts the tree from Ward’s side. Roger barks once, aimless.

Coulson leads Ward into his office. Out of the cold.

 

 

 

 

“Your dog seems to be running into a lot of walls,” Coulson says.

“She’s blind,” Ward says.

“Ah.”

 

 

 

 

Grant Ward wakes up in a small-town New Hampshire hospital.

He can’t move. He also can’t panic. Too cloudy.

The nurse has noticed him. She’s saying things about bruises and broken ribs and lacerations. He listens dutifully to her peaceful chatter until he can no longer stop himself from passing out.

 

 

 

 

May takes his bag from him. She hasn’t tried to strangle him in the twelve seconds he’s been in her presence, so he counts that as a positive.

He’s been trying really hard to stay positive.

“For the record,” she says, as she rifles through the backpack. “I was hesitant about Coulson inviting you here.”

“That’s understandable,” he says. All of his words feel like _not enough_. But he knows he has no other course of action besides saying them.

“The others don’t know that you’re here. Skye, Fitz, Simmons—they aren’t prepared to see you.”

“They know I’m here now.”

“How?”

“They panned down the security camera outside to see Roger.”

“Who’s Roger?”

The dog barks.

She takes a long look at the dog and then looks back at him.

“Why’d you bring a dog, Ward?”

“Couldn’t find a sitter.”

She rolls her eyes. That seems like a good sign.

 

 

 

 

This isn’t even his worst nightmare come true.

It’s like being a kid again, but Dana’s not here, so it’s better. Rose is not here, so it’s better. It’s just Maynard, beating the shit out of him. He’s not physically weaker anymore, but he let his brother get into his head, so he’s the one on the ground.

And then.

A loud noise, one that he recognizes like the back of his hand. He uses what’s left of his strength to crane his neck back, and there are Skye and Jemma, upside down, guns drawn, both recently fired, each responsible for sinking slugs into Maynard’s shoulders.

Grant loses himself for a moment, but when he can see again they are leaning over him. And Fitz. The three of them floating over his head. Like angels, he thinks. And then he corrects himself. No, that’s unhealthy. They’re just people. They’re just good people.

He’s underwater. He sees them with ripples blurring their faces. Then he passes out.

 

 

 

 

Skye, Fitz, and Simmons are waiting outside the door of Coulson’s office when May exits with Ward’s bag.

“What’s going on?” Skye says.

May starts to walk, so they follow.

“Coulson invited Ward here.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

“But if you had to guess?”

May stops in front of an empty bunk. “It seems like he wants to make amends.”

The trio waits outside while May puts Ward’s bag away. When she returns, she studies their faces.

“Is this going to be a problem for any of you?”

They all take a breath.

 

 

 

 

He had gone to see Maynard with good intentions.

Well, not good in the standard sense. Good in the _I’m putting this to rest once and for all_ sense.

He didn’t know SHIELD was listening. He should’ve known. He should’ve done a more thorough sweep; he should have assumed that Maynard would try and get Coulson on his side for the inevitable conclusion. But he had been too focused. Not focused enough. Both.

They hear everything.

They see everything.

And the girls burst through the door first.

 

 

 

 

Coulson calls them all into the common space.

May, Skye, Fitz and Jemma. Trip. Mack and Lance and Bobbi.

“So, Ward’s here.”

Ward knits his eyebrows.

“We can see that,” Skye says.

Coulson ignores that. “I invited him here to discuss whether or not he would do some contract work with us. On a case-by-case basis, of course.”

Coulson looks each of them in the eye. “If anyone has a problem with this, their concerns will be heard and then ignored.”

As usual.

But no one seems to have any concerns.

Lance raises his hand.

Coulson sighs.

“Yeah?”

“Who’s the dog?”

“This is Roger,” Ward says. Roger barks. “She’s getting up there in age, and she’s blind. And diabetic. But she’s a great dog.”

“Roger...is a girl dog?” Lance asks.

“Do you have a problem with the way my dog expresses herself?”

Lance raises his hands up in surrender.

“If that’s all?” Coulson says. They’re dismissed. Everyone peels off in their own direction.

Except Ward stays still, unsure.

And the three kids stand frozen.

 

 

 

 

The recording is playing over and over again. Skye could pause it but none of them want her to. They all want to feel ashamed.

A clip of United States Senator Christian Maynard Ward describing, quite maliciously, a well.

And then a lot of other bad things.

This could ruin his political career. But they’d rather ruin something else.

If Ward was telling the truth about this, what else did they ignore?

 

 

 

 

“Hi,” Grant says tightly.

He has to be extra gentle, he has to be so, so careful. He can’t knock anything loose. He has to be gentle. He’s been gone too long and he’s out of practice. He likes them. He wants to be gentle.

They don’t look scared, nor angry, which is a step up from the last few times he saw them.

“You brought us a Christmas tree,” Skye says.

He blinks.

“And a menorah,” he says quickly.

“I don’t think anyone’s Jewish,” Skye says.

“Bobbi is,” Jemma corrects.

“Really?” Grant asks. He’s starting to smile, pleased he got something right.

Jemma, a little startled by his sudden focused attention, smiles a tiny smile. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

None of them are mad. None of them seem to be mad. Fitz hasn’t said anything yet, though.

“Do you want to meet my dog?”

“Told you,” Fitz murmurs, tapping Jemma’s arm.

Ward frowns. But Fitz doesn’t say anything else; rather he takes the first step forward to kneel down and pet the dog.

Roger rolls over instantly, tail wagging. Ward smiles a little. “She’s so needy. She loves people so much.”

“Should we set the tree up?” Jemma asks brightly, and her expression is screaming _group activity!_.

“I didn’t even realize it was almost Christmas,” Skye says offhandedly.

“Did you bring anything to decorate the tree with?” Fitz asks at his feet, looking up at him, tiny and open.

Oh. “Oh. Uh. I forgot about that part.”

“We should probably make some then,” Skye says, sweeping his mistake under the rug.

“Oh, Fitz!” Jemma says. “We could make those little lights, do you remember—?”

“Yes!” he says. “Yeah, that could be, yeah. Shouldn’t be too hard.” He lifts up from his crouch. Roger barks.

Skye grabs Jemma’s arm. “Let’s go then,” she says.

Fitz turns to Ward. “Let’s go then,” he repeats.

Ward breathes in.

 

 

 

 

Fitz has gathered the troops in the lab. He and Jemma are standing at the front with squared shoulders like army generals about to give an assignment.

“Grant Douglas Ward,” Fitz grandstands, pointing to him, “has brought us a peace offering in the form of a Christmas tree. It’s our duty to decorate it.”

“And a menorah,” Ward says again.

“I didn’t know you were Jewish,” Trip says.

“I’m not.”

“Good for you, being inclusive,” Trip shrugs supportively.

“I’m Jewish,” Bobbi offers helpfully.

“No, you’re not,” Lance says.

She turns an eye on him. “Excuse me?”

“The only time you’re Jewish is when your mother’s around.”

“Hunter, you don’t get to tell me when I’m Jewish.”

“No, _I_ don’t. Your mother does.”

She ignores him. “That’s very thoughtful, Ward. In fact, maybe I should make Hanukkah dinner tonight.”

“Oh, I _so_ look forward to—”

Fitz cuts Lance off. “Oy! That’s enough. Focus up, everyone.”

“You have your assignments,” Jemma snaps. She’s brandishing some spare part that makes her look more like a dominatrix than a general. “Get to work!”

Everyone does as they’re told. Most of them are putting together these little light doo-dads that Fitzsimmons designed first year of Academy. Fitz himself is holding a welding torch, urging Jemma to put on her protective gear so they can make a star for the top. Bobbi leans over to Jemma quickly.

“Hey, so, uh. I need to get out of this so I can learn how to make potato pancakes,” Bobbi mutters out of the corner of her mouth into Jemma’s ear.

“You’re excused.”

“Thank you.”

 

 

 

 

This is bizarre.

Ward’s fingers are far too large to put together the tiny pieces, but he makes a genuine effort for a few minutes, and when he looks up Skye is watching him.

Grant coughs. “So, uh. Remember that time you called me a Nazi?”

Skye blinks. “Which time?”

It’s almost funny. Almost.

“I read up on it. I mean, I’m not an idiot, I already knew about the Holocaust. But I did some research about HYDRA’s history.” He swallows. “So, maybe. I think maybe you were right.”

She looks down at her hands, opening her mouth but struggling for words for a moment. “Well. We understand things about the past better now, so.”

It’s not an acceptance or an apology or a dismissal. It’s just a movement.

He nods. He will gladly hold onto that.

 

 

 

 

Trip and Mack are hefting the Christmas tree into its stand in the lounge, and Skye is giving rather vexing instructions ( _To the right. No,_ my _right, god damn it. Now drop it low. Your asses, not the tree—_ ) when Fitz taps him on the arm with the back of his hand.

“I have something to say,” Fitz says.

Ward inhales sharply. Nods once. “Okay.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get over what you did to me and Jemma.”

Ward was expecting this. He was not prepared, really. But he was expecting this. He can feel his eyes growing wide without meaning them to.

“If it makes you feel better, I probably won’t ever forgive myself either.”

“It doesn’t make me feel better,” Fitz says. “That’s the point.” Grant doesn’t fully understand, but Fitz keeps talking, turning to him fully. “You used to act like you were like May and Coulson. A proper, professional agent, totally in control. But you were more like us, really. New and scared and lost. Looking for something. You’re one of us.”

Grant doesn’t refute it. He can’t.

“You still care about us.”

Grant doesn’t refute that either.

He can’t.

He just nods.

“And I guess I appreciate that, even if you caring about us does tend to leave me with brain damage.”

“I’m sorry,” Grant responds, because what else can you say?

“I know you are.”

“A lot of things are different now,” Ward says.

Fitz’s eyes slide over to Jemma, who’s talking to Lance on the couch.

“Yes.”

“Anything different with you and her?”

Fitz looks at him in the eye for a long moment. “We’ll work up to that topic,” Fitz says. And slaps his back. Like nothing’s different at all.

 

 

 

 

“Ward, go see what’s keeping Jemma,” Fitz says, standing still with his arms outstretched as faux-branches as Lance tosses tinsel onto him. Ward does as he’s told, going dutifully down to the base’s lab. When he finds her, she’s looking hard at something he can’t see.

“This doesn’t really count for much anymore,” he starts. Jemma jerks a little in surprise, turns to look at him. She’s on the other side of the room and he leaves her a wide berth as he leaves the doorway. “But I’m really proud of you.”

She stares. “For what?”

He tries to think of the right way to say it. “I never expected for you to do all the things that you’ve done the last few months. Going undercover, training with May. You, uh. You shot my brother.” He swallows. “You took all your weaknesses and turned them into strengths.”

Her lip is trembling a little.

“You were always capable, Simmons. But you grew a lot and I’m really proud of you.”

Oh, no. He made her cry. He wants to believe it’s good crying but frankly he doesn’t know how to handle tears of any sort. Not from her.

She crumbles.

“I’m sorry I said I would kill you if I ever saw you again.” It tumbles out of her mouth. “I didn’t mean it. I don’t know why I said it, I just—”

He approaches a tiny bit. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she says. “I’m really sorry.”

“Forgiven,” he says.

He watches her squeeze her eyes tight, like she’s hoping for something. Then she lets go, wiping her face.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About everything.”

“I know that,” she says. “We used to have a good thing, the four of us.” She sounds thoughtful.

“We can’t have that back,” he says.

“No, we can never go back. But we can have something. Something that’s not based on a lie.”

He nods. “I'm gonna do better.”

She smiles a little. “I believe you. Don’t make me regret it.”

 

 

 

 

Grant is returning with Jemma when he smells the smoke.

He follows his nose.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” Bobbi is chanting as the stove-top in the kitchen billows thick gray smoke.

Ward wrenches the fire extinguisher off the wall and Bobbi grabs the frying pan, sticking it on the floor to be sprayed with foam.

There is a long silence while everyone blinks into understanding.

“So,” Jemma says, eyes wide. “How are things going in here?”

“Don't tell Hunter.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” she replies.

“Oh, god. Fitz is gonna be so sad if I can't produce fried food for him,” Bobbi says.

“We can fix this,” Ward says.

“Without burning down the base?”

“Yeah. I've read a few recipes and I'm good with a frying pan. I can help.”

Bobbi's eyes slide to Jemma's, and then quickly back.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Sure,” he says.

“He's trying to prove he's not a Nazi,” Jemma stage-whispers.

Ward rolls his eyes heavenward.

“Jemma, go cover for us,” Bobbi says.

Jemma nods dutifully, but Grant stops her.

“Are they going to believe you?” he asks.

“Bobbi's been teaching me how to lie better. Mostly to screw around with Lance. Want to see?”

Ward nods.

“It's not weird that you're here _at all_ ,” Jemma says brightly.

Ward gives her the most deadpan look he can manage while Bobbi smirks. Jemma turns on her heel and leaves.

“So,” Ward says. “You're on _Jemma_ terms with Simmons.”

“She and I bonded over the whole undercover-at-HYDRA thing,” Bobbi says. “She's a good one.”

“She is,” he says. “Listen, I'm sorry about that time on the bus.” His apologies are getting easier to make. That feels good. Practice.

“We'll leave the past in the past, Ward. As much as we can, at least,” Bobbi says. “Besides, you're helping me prove my Jewishness. I can get over you saying some creepy shit on a bus one time.”

“Thanks,” he says. He turns to the charred stove top. “Maybe you can make the mix and I can fry them?”

“That's probably the safest option,” Bobbi says, pulling a hugely dorky chagrined face.

He smiles back.

 

 

 

 

They eat dinner around a large wooden table. Apparently this is a novelty, or so it's been explained to Ward. There's always someone injured (Lance) or out on assignment (May) or locked in their office (Coulson) so they rarely all eat together.

Bobbi and Grant have managed to make a small fortune of latkes that are piled high on the table. He is squished between Mack and May, the Biggest and the Strongest, which he tries not to let feel like a security matter rather than chance. He mostly stays quiet and tries to eat a bit, listening to the chatter. They're a rowdy bunch. Well, not May. Or Mack. They're a buffer. That's nice.

“Um, Bob?” Lance says. He has that voice on that means he's about to be an asshole. “Aren't you going to light the—?”

“Menorah?” Bobbi finishes.

“It's a hanukkiah if it's used for Hanukkah, actually,” Lance says.

“What the fuck.”

“I know things.”

“No, you don't.”

“Are you gonna light it?”

“Well,” Bobbi says. “I would, but I don't have any candles.”

“I do,” Ward says. “Roger, go get the candles.”

The dog gets up and trots off to the bunks.

“I thought she was blind,” Jemma says.

“She's good,” Ward says. “She can do it.”

A few weirdly silent moments later, and Roger returns with a box of candles in her mouth.

“Whoa,” Skye says.

Roger stops between May and Ward and drops the box into Ward's open hand.

“Good girl, you're such a good girl,” Ward coos. Roger wags her tail and then turns expectantly to May.

May sighs. “Good girl.”

Roger woofs.

Ward reaches across the table to hand the slobbery box of candles to Bobbi.

“Gross,” she says, but takes them anyway, opening it up and placing eight candles in the menorah.

“Wow, Bob. Didn't realize it was the last day,” Hunter says sarcastically.

“No, she's right,” Ward says.

“It's the seventh day, but you use an extra one to light the other candles. _Booyah,_ ” Bobbi shouts.

“Fine, fine. You're Jewish.”

“Damn right I am!”

“Bobbi,” Coulson warns. But he's smiling.

Bobbi lights the middle candle and almost begins, but then she looks at Grant. “You want to chime in here?”

“Oh, I don't speak Hebrew.”

“Is that the only language in the world you _don't_ speak?” Skye says.

“That and Esperanto.”

“Wow, that's like a full joke.”

“You're proud,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. Successful, non-upsetting interaction with Skye: check.

“I'll do it myself then,” Bobbi says. “ _Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam, asher kidishanu b'mitz'votav v'tzivanu_ _l'had'lik neir shel Chanukah._ ”

She looks up to Ward. He doesn't know what to do so he gives her a thumbs up. Roger barks.

The room murmurs in appreciation.

“I'm Jewish,” Bobbi says, sitting down. “I'm _super_ Jewish.”

“We know, love,” Jemma says, patting her shoulder.

“Potato pancakes are my new favorite food,” Fitz says, mouth full. “I love you, Bobbi.”

“Ward helped,” Bobbi says immediately. “Like, a lot.”

“You guys should make donuts next,” Fitz says.

Bobbi looks at Ward. Ward looks at Bobbi. Then he looks at Coulson.

“We'll see what we can do,” he says.

 

 

 

 

(That's how Grant Ward saved Hanukkah.)

 


End file.
